Page 13 of The Thief
We finish cleaning in silence. When we're done, she disappears into the back room before returning with a mop and bucket. I'm back on my barstool by then, nursing a fresh glass like nothing happened.
"You don't know anything about my father," she says quietly, mopping up the last of the whiskey.
"Killian Gallagher. He was the head of the IRA in New York. He died in Chicago eighteen months ago. Not in a car-jacking. It was in an explosion."
Her face goes white. "How do you?—"
"Because I'm here on behalf of your family. The family you don't know exists."
She sets the mop aside then grips the edge of the bar like it's the only thing keeping her upright.
"I don't have family. There’s just me."
"Your father never told you about Henry Gallagher?"
Something flickers in her eyes. Recognition, maybe. Fear, definitely.
"Never heard the name in my life."
She’s lying. I can see it in the way her eyes dart away, and the tension in her jaw. She's heard the name before, but she's not admitting it.
"Henry Gallagher is your grandfather. Your father's dad. You've got an aunt, cousins, an entire clan in Dublin and beyond."
"My father died in a car-jacking."
"Your father died in an explosion at your cousin's house in Chicago."
The color drains from her face completely now. She looks like she might faint, or bolt, or both.
"You're lying."
"Why would I lie about something like that?"
"Because you want something from me. Men like you always want something."
Fair point. I do want something from her. I want her to come with me, back to Dublin. But watching her struggle with the truth, seeing the pain in her eyes, makes me want to burn the whole job.
"What do you want?" she asks.
"To take you home."
"This is my home."
"This?" I gesture around the pub, at the broken men drinking away their sorrows, at the water stains on the ceiling and the smell of desperation. "This isn't a home. It's a hiding place."
Her eyes flash with anger. Good. Anger's better than the hollow despair I saw there a moment ago.
"Don't tell me what my life is like. You don't know me."
"I know you're alone. I know you're scared. I know you're wasting your life in this shithole when you could be somewhere that matters."
"And where's that? With the family that abandoned me? With the grandfather who never bothered to find me until now?"
She's got a point there. Henry's explanation for why they never contacted her was thin. Something about Killian wanting to keep her away from the life, about respecting his wishes. Bullshit, if you ask me.
"They want to make things right," I say.
"Eighteen years too late."
